Black Germination
by warmaster23
Summary: A Craftworld prepares for war while a potential civil strife calls upon the Imperial Guard. Over time, the situation becomes worse.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is indebted to Games Workshop and Forgeworld. **

**It was a difficult decision to decide whether or not it was worth it in a long run. **

**I wished to express an appreciation to those who were looking forward to a new story. I apologize for having bugged out.  
**

**If there are questions, please pm. **

**Thank you.  
**

**-warmaster23  
**

* * *

**The Beginning**

He knew this setting was a one of a kind. As he stared from the shining sea to the idyllic dusty town, he knew he was not to be daunted by its beauty. In the eyes of the Death Korps, they believed that in their destruction they achieved salvation. For some, it was a long wait.

The men were quick to establish a trench line overlooking this serene coastal town. This positioned was once surveyed by a squadron of Death Riders on reconnaissance and said it was good ground. Also, they saw modified Chimaeras in and out of the town. An infantry platoon was dispatched while the rest of the battalion assembled behind.

A Heavy Bolter, positioned in an underground fire point, was covered to avoid the sheen it bore. A mortar sat idle; its rounds unused. The troops struggled to adapt to these conditions. The sun sieved through the makeshift canopies, penetrating the shade. Because this was a temporary position, the lieutenant decided razor wire was unsuitable, leaving the men with less protection.

They no longer wore the greatcoats and respirators, because it simply was not suitable in these current conditions. On a particular day like this, it was warm afternoon with a little breeze coming from the sea. The air was fresh and salty, a new sensation for the guardsmen who were used to recycled air. Instead they wore pan-shaped garrison caps with matched regimental colors.

Lieutenant 353241 "Zero-One" Handelmann peered through a periscope that stuck its head halfway above ground. His guardsmen sat in their holes for three days, but there was little worth mentioning in his evening reports back to the company. His eye wandered through the mustard yellow buildings where occasionally still of color caught his eye. The inhabitants played hide-and-seek, as if they knew what was hiding out in plateau. His platoon was close to the waters, but away from any major roads and used the terrain to screen their position.

His unit was the only unit in the regiment that was beyond the encampment. The regiment has been building its forces at a slower pace in comparison to the other Guard units in the same area.

Senior Watchmaster 151343 Grenz, the most senior enlisted man in the platoon, stood next to Handelmann with a warm cup of recaf.

"Recaf, sir?" said Grenz.

"Thank you, Senior Watch," said Handelmann, taking his eyes from the double-head periscope. The grenadier took a look at his chronometer; it read 1745 hours. He finished the entire cup and handed it back to Grenz, which the lieutenant stepped down from rampart.

"May I, sir?" said Grenz, gesturing to the periscope.

"By all means, Senior Watch," said Handelmann.

Handelmann retreated to the few dugouts where the vox officer set up shop.

"Lieutenant, sir, do you wish to send a message?"

"Aye, at ease, patch me to company command, Watchmaster."

He activated the encryption module to the company's dedicated frequency. Once he secured it, he handed him the handset.

"Here we are, sir, it's live."

Handelmann pressed the talk button.

"This is Zero-One to Zero-Zero-One."

"Standby."

Its voice was scrambled, but crisp. A few seconds later, a new voice appeared, convoluted with static.

"Zero-One, send."

"Situation normal; orders, sir, over?"

"Negative, as you were, Zero-Zero-One out."

The task completed, he went back to his troops. The majority tried to alleviate the boredom through routine; some cleaned their weapons and smoked their ilhos.

The lieutenant walked through the forested lines. Salutes and greetings came from the inactive guardsmen, while those on sentry duties remained as they were. He checked on the heavy weapons who were itching to shoot at something. Everyone felt a drop of expectation.

The town's name was Marizeska and it showed very little evidence of occupation. It stood out along the coastline of Rirago Province on the natural rock formations. Marizeska rested on scalable dirt incline above the shoreline, but was only fifty meters above sea level. The stone walls are short enough so the building's view is not obstructed. According to naval intelligence, combined with the PDF's, there was a potential the town harbored rebels and traitors. Marizeska's place in relation to Saint Cajo, a major port seventy-five kilometers up north, was taken into account, because anybody could come from the sea and take control of the town. Scirasa's PDF mobilized when a few months ago, Saint Cajo, and numerous cities, including the capital, Tordal was attacked by PDF separatists.

Many of towns, cities, ports, and villages fell into their occupation. Loyalties were questioned and suspicion became the cancer. The germinating influence they cast was incredible to the Planetary Governor, who realized it was out of his hands and expected nothing good from the decisions he had to make. He contacted the Segmentum Pacificus' naval base of Hydraphur, several light years to the north and before long, news fell before the High Lords. It was thanks to Scirasa's fringe proximity to the Segmentum Solar was the key for their remarkably swift response.

Several months past when a dedicated battleforce was created, through limited resources, during which, the separatists had gathered in force and launched offensives within the capital, Saint Cajo, and other cities. Thousands of people perished between both sides and with lethargy, the Departmento Munitorum dispatched five regiments. For the past week, the first troops spread across the continent, but since their arrival, things were quiet. It annoyed some of the commanders, because the enemy was not homogeneous. They were not positive if someone was in charge. With little to no choices available, they waited for another attack. The Lord-General's orders were to attack as soon the source could be identified, combined with an assessment of its agenda.

Their arrival four days ago offered little insight to what was going on in Marizeska. As the lead outpost for First Company, he had little news to report. Handelmann doubted things would be fruitful if he had sent out night patrols. All of this sneaking and waiting was not a typical Korps rule unless there was a present enemy in sight.

Fortunately, for the men of the First Platoon, waiting was second nature.

* * *

The sun still shone brightly in the late evening, creating patches of saturated light on the hidden grenadiers. Those asleep placed their caps on their faces, in attempt to ward off the sun while others remained on the parapet. The platoon's position overlooked the town.

Private 834544 "One-Five" Krantz studied the landscape from the parapet. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets as the uneventful day passed before his eyes. Although his eyes were focused on the town, the sun's reflection from sea captivated his vision. From his position, the sea gave the impression of infinite greatness. Naturally he squinted in its brilliance.

Krantz wiped his brow with his cap. He was a tall man of average build with faded dirty blonde hair. His fair complexion was becoming burnt. For a young man, he had a face as if he swallowed a sickness and refused to spit. The color of Payne's filled his squinted eyes as he lifeless eyes scanned the landscape.

His squad, the First, was a raw squad. Only the Watchmaster 152343 "One-One" Schren and Corporal "One-Two" 124142 Brecksten had prior combat experience. The rest were fresh from Krieg and await the coming battle. It is doubtful the newest members of the squad had trained together, but they all entrusted each other to the end. Everyone depended one another.

A slow-moving figure walked out of the town. Krantz crouched to pick up a pair of binoculars. He stood up enough so the binoculars were not in complete view. The figure was too far, even if they were allowed to shoot on sight.

Out of the blue the lanky Brecksten joined him with an ilho in his mouth.

"Ho, One-Five; what's that over there?" said Brecksten.

He spoke in a drawl, slurring words. Without a word, Krantz handed him the binoculars. Brecksten stooped to his level and observed.

"Not worth a bolt," said the Brecksten as he returned the binoculars. The trail of the burnt substance lingered in Krantz's nose. Krantz looked again and saw it. Four days out in the mundane surroundings prompted any sentry to not take the little things for granted.

He lost the track of time until he felt a shake on the shoulder.

"Relief," said a trooper.

Krantz nodded and stepped down. He checked his chronometer from a waist pouch; fifteen minutes until dinner. Fifteen minutes felt forever, so Krantz went back up on the parapet again.

"One-Five, have you eaten?" said Schren. He wasn't as tall as Krantz, but was a grimly charismatic individual who had been a survivor for far too long.

"No, sir."

"Eat."

He climbed down and joined his squad against both sides of the trench. He went to his pack and pulled a tin of rations. No one talked as they ate, the only sounds were the scrapping of metal as some finished up their meal. Krantz slowly ate his meal, followed by small swigs of water from a canteen. When he finished, he stood up to find a secluded corner to bury the can. Fortunately, a spot was not taken and he subsequently buried it.

He exhaled, but it was more a sigh. He returned to his former spot, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

* * *

War calls; Khaine demands blood.

Combat entices her mind and would never leave.

Her name was Khalena, a Banshee. She was a living representation of Khaine's fear.

She made a choice. Her life was worth nothing unless it warranted a worthy death to the Craftworld and Kaela Mensha Khaine.

When she opened her eyes; the mask uplifted. Her mind settled as the blood dissipated down to her body. The surge had made her unaware, of her surroundings, but when came to she was in the armory. Ten suits of armor, weapons, and gear were before her eyes. They yearned to be used, once again.

Khalena was aware her past, in particular, the expectations When her predecessor and mentor fell in battle decades ago, she was honored to be the heir. She was humbled and her brashness and aggressiveness subsided. She channeled the energy when she led a hungry band of Banshees. They were eager to prove themselves.

Over the years many perished with some on her accord. She learned to cope with the losses, but it nevertheless lingered. Khalena witnessed her aspect reformed, then destroyed. She wondered why she was not among those who were gone.

When she relaxed her brow, the semi-permanent lines receded. However, her mind was fogged. Khalena flexed her fingers and raised one hand to inspect. Hands captivated her; a gesture from it revealed an individual's persona. She was lucky to have them.

The Exarch made a fist; the tendons and veins exposed her muscular forearms under the mesh. She released when she exhaled, her heart pumped more blood. For now, her mask lifted. Nothing was prepared if she was unrestrained; Khalena included.

The Banshee wore no armor but bleach bone Exarch robes over her a navy blue mesh suit and combat soles, . She was muscular, a trait most Eldar do not have, but her frame was not burdensome in combat. Her unprecedented strength was her edge over difficult enemies like an Ork Nobz or a Space Marine. However, it served as a metaphor of heightened aggression. It meant danger to those around her.

As a member of the Saim-Hann Craftworld, she was aware of its reputation. The Saim-Hann's reputation ruthlessness in combat and a martial host was second to the Biel-tan. They were not expansive as the Ulthwé or the Biel-tan. The combat doctrine emphasized on speed and to eliminate much of the enemy before an orderly withdrawal.

It was not only because of their prowess in battle that alarmed their Craftworld cousins. They upheld the importance of honour to the degree the clans fought duels against one another. Many of the other Eldar reviled the barbarity, but it was a way for the warriors to maintain a code.

As an Exarch of the Aspect Warriors, she was immune to clan politics. She nevertheless witnessed many duels, but some of the duels occurred out of petty antagonism. She and her Aspect siblings mediated the conflicts and brought their cases to the ears of the chief Farseer and the Autarch. In any case, her dedication to the Aspect drove a wedge between her and the clan she once belonged.

Khalena wasn't concerned about fatalities in the duels, because, in the end, they made clans united in battle.

She walked out of the armory and saw someone with vermillion hair in the attire as wore. Its back faced Khalena as she left the Aspect Shrine. Khalena recognized her.

"Leizia," she said.

She turned and immediately when up to her.

"My Exarch, my apologies," said Leizia, who crossed her right arm to her opposite shoulder and bowed her head.

"For what, my Banshee?"

"I was unobservant of surroundings, my Exarch."

Khalena placed a hand on Leizia's shoulder, a sign of calm. She was strong; she felt her strength in her shoulders. But it was not the kind of strength. It was tense.

Khalena was a tad taller than the Leizia and shared a similar build. She placed an hand on Leizia's shoulder and felt her taught muscles. The Exarch sensed something was amiss.

"Calm, Leizia, you have been on edge; what brings you to the shrine?"

Leizia admitted she had no idea. She bowed her head.

"I know not, my Exarch."

"I see, then may you accompany me to the training hall?"

"My Exarch, you need not to ask."

They entered the vast training hall where the Striking Scorpions were taking a break from mock battles. The entire aspect was there, a full squad. Khalena's senses noticed the scent of perspiration. The Scoprions were still there. When they entered the entrance, the entire aspect was assembled in the empty complex.

The Striking Scorpions were stockier than most Eldar, but were the strongest assault troops, if not the most skilled. They were certainly the most ferocious warriors Craftworld has produced. Many times Khalena witnessed the Scorpions in battle and struck the enemy with its boundless ferocity. Whenever the warhost went to battle, the Scorpions rode hard and fast on their Jetbikes for first blood. To tamper their aggressive nature, they acted as infiltrators and when unleashed, they were merciless.

The Scorpions and Banshees were very close to each other, creating an extended family. A healthy rivalry existed for as long as Exarchs were around. There were times when the two Aspects trained with each other and fought in mock battles. Duels were common, but non-lethal. Sometimes lethal when the final insult was given.

A half-naked Scorpion with a sparring staff turned his attention to the Banshee pair. Khalena noticed him and gave small nod. He was a tall warrior with an aggressive aura. His charred hair was in a high ponytail. A red bandana on his forehead gleamed in sweat. It was if he let his war mask show for a moment. It was a habit that worried his fellow Exarchs, in particular Khalena, who shared a sibling's relationship. His name was Drjen.

"The Banshees honor us with their presence," he said.

His brisk, baritone voice emanated in the vast raining complex. All eyes were on the Banshee pair.

Khalida crossed her right arm to her opposite shoulder, a warrior's salute.

"Exarch Drjen, an honor," said Khalida, cool and even, "I apologize for disturbing your training session."

"And the same, but you are not disturbing us in the least, for we are finishing," said Drjen as he walked up to the pair. Both warriors clasped each other forearms as warriors and shook.

Khalenaa felt Leizia's composure shaken by the Scorpion's presence. The Scorpion must have sensed it and darted his shifty eyes at Leizia.

"Who is your Banshee?"

"I am Leizia, Exarch Scorpion," she said and bowed her head.

"She's as graceful as her Exarch; you teach them well, Exarch Khalena."

"You should not leave yourself out of the praise, Exarch Drjen," said Khalena.

"Ah if only Exarch, but it does not satisfy our taste for battle, eh, Scorpions?"

The Scorpions let out a hoot of affirmation.

"Are your warriors ready for blood, Exarch Khalena?"

"When Khaine demands it, Exarch Drjen."

He nodded and turned to his warriors.

"Warriors, clean the training hall; that is it for today. Exarch Khalena, I will take my leave."

Drjen bowed his head and returned to his warriors.

Khalena and Leizia returned the gesture and left the hall. Within the hour, they would return with the entire Aspect for training. As they entered the Banshee quarters, Khalena felt Leizia's mind displaced. Externally, she appeared composed, but the Exarch felt a similar sentiment she felt in her formative years. Something was burning inside Leizia, but Khalena was not compelled to ask at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**This story is indebted to Games Workshop and Forgeworld. **

* * *

**The Survey**

He was awakened by a hard nudge on his shoulder. Krantz looked up and saw his Watchmaster looming over him. Immediately, he stood up at attention. It was already dark, but a faint moonlight casted over trenches.

"Good rest, One-Five?" said Schren, his tone even.

"Aye, sir," said Krantz.

"Then you wouldn't mind if you unconditionally volunteered for a night picket."

"No, sir."

"You know where to go?"

"Yes, sir."

"One-Six will be your partner; go to the ladder by the Heavy Bolter."

Once he saluted, Krantz grabbed his weapon and maneuvered through the trench. He waited as another trooper shifted through the trench. Krantz went up the ladder and felt taller now that he was ground level. Because of the platoon's temporary position as observers, no screamers were installed. This was a mission that required every soldier to be at his peak. They could not risk the auspex.

It was a cool night, little to no humidity. The sound of insects ticked his ear as he carefully made his way down the hill. The picket line was about one hundred and fifty meters out where it overlooked Marizeska. The sea on his left glowed from the moonlight. Because of its close proximity to the town and its main road, the pickets had to orient themselves where they would not find themselves in a compromising position. Noise and fire discipline were expected from the troops in these situations.

Their destination was the left-hand side of the copse of trees. It was suitable for it screened their presence from the main road and appropriate for their observational duties. Krantz squinted as he slowed his pace and then went prone. He crawled to the position where he made out forms that stood out.

"Who's there?" said a hoarse voice.

"One-Five."

"One-Six", said his partner.

"Right on time," said the other, "let's go One-Four."

The relived guardsmen carefully made their way back to the trenches. Krantz took his spot and kept watched on the town. He checked his chronometer. It was around zero hour.

"I'm going to move in closer and extend the picket fifty meters to the left," said Krantz.

"I'll be here," said Dessler.

Krantz got up and walked up to the sunken trench. With careful pace, he set himself against the sunken road and slid down. Firm earth greeted him. He observed his surroundings and continued. Up ahead, the vegetation was nonexistent, but numerous boulders and rock formations presented the textural side of the land. Topographically, the ground gradually depressed before the town; the semblance of a castle and its dried up moat. Krantz decided to not venture in a direct manner and walked down the left of the trench.

Little by little, his sight adjusted to the night, but the sound of his footsteps had him on edge. He glanced left and saw dark masses flicked on by the scant moonlight. Krantz glanced his eyes up; the clear night reveled the nights' ethereal qualities. He kept his ears and eyes open to his surroundings, but the stillness tickled him. The trooper was fortunate the moon generated some light, but damned as well.

The trooper stopped and knelt. After a moment, he decided to venture in the town's direction. The wind picked up again. He felt his cap about to blown away before a timely hand secured it. Beyond the sunken road, the land looked like dry cake. Now that he was within possible enemy territory, he had to careful with his steps. However, he hesitated and retracted his foot. He decided it was time to get back to high ground. Fortunately, the incline behind Krantz was not severe and he made quick work. His vox bead squelched when he began his return.

"One-Five, One-Six here, there are lights coming from the east."

"Returning to your position, One-Six."

Krantz picked up his pace and scoured up the high ground. With a hunched posture, he sprinted his way back to his One-Six's position. When he came into view, Dessler had not moved an inch. Krantz knelt next to Dessler who ignored his presence. The vox bead squelched again.

"One-Zero to pickets, First squad assembling at your position; standby, over."

"One-Five here, understood, sir," said Krantz.

"One-Six here, understood, sir," said Dessler.

The vox was silent again.

"Was there anything out there?" said Dessler to Krantz.

"No, it's quiet, but there's plenty of cover up ahead; anything?"

"The same," said Dessler as he turned around, "and here they are."

Handelmann's binoculars shifted to a steady rumbling on the right flank. He saw tiny bulbs of light moving on the path. Although the settings were set for low-light environments, the distance between was too far for Handelmann. He tried to study the chassis of each vehicle, yet the optical static was disruptive. They were moving at a moderate pace.

A decision in mind, he went over to far left of the trench. His entourage was behind him.

"First squad, on your feet," he said.

The entire squad was on its feet, despite some were half-asleep. Watchmaster Schren approached him and saluted.

"Lieutenant, sir."

"There's an unknown convoy coming in from the east; the squad will assemble with the picket and await further orders."

"Yes sir; let's move, First," said Schren.

The squad shuffled through the tight space. Handelmann turned away and headed to the command bunker. The vox operator was a blanket, trying to sleep with his vox-caster next to him. When Handelmann strode in, he was rubbing his eyes when he saw his commanding officer. Immediately he stood at attention.

"Sir," he said.

"At ease, a line to company headquarters."

"Yes, sir," said his vox operator as he reached for the handset and turned on the encryption module.

"Here we are, sir," he said, handing the handset to Handelmann.

"Zero-One to Zero-Zero-One," he said as he lifted the handset to his ear.

"Go ahead, Zero-One," said the voice.

"Unknown convoy approaching from the east in direction to the town at zero-fifteen hours; the pickets are alert, over."

"Understood, Zero-One."

"Orders, sir?"

"Carry on, Zero-One; relaying data to the rest of the company; stand by, Zero-Zero-One out."

* * *

**New Focus**

The focus was on the Banshee's conduct of war; swordplay and flexibility. While they were assault troops, Khalena was adamant that the Banshees emphasized on fluidity and quickness. The Exarch took part in these exercises and the air of friendly competition hardened the relationship she had with her warriors. She noticed every Banshee had some sort of strength and weakness and strove to improve those qualities.

Authrana was not the fastest, but was very gifted in acrobatics.

Leizia's bladework was proficient, however she was not strong to face the likes of an Imperial Space Marine.

Ierana was one of the stronger Banshees, yet she held back her strength for an indefinite period.

Everyday, the Banshee made sure she and her warriors were not blind to their qualities. It was only though understanding that her warriors had the ability to overcome their shortcomings. Overall, her warriors were mature. While the warriors spared with one another, herself included, she target their weaknesses, but her expectations were not consistent. On some days, their weaknesses were solved, but on another day, they came back. Khalena observed Leizia and felt whatever ill feeling she tried to repress was no longer there. However, it is rare for the feelings to be suppressed for a long period of time.

The Banshees went their own separate ways until tomorrow. Khalena went to her quarters behind the Aspect shrine. The housing block was attached to the shrine's armory, so every Banshee had access to the shrine. It was a comfortable environment, spacious, yet economic. A pair of Banshee roomed together, except for the Exarch, who lived in a separate space next to the armory.

The light came on when she entered her room. It was modest space with bed, closet, and a bathroom. The interior color contrasted to the fiery nature of the Saim-Hann Eldar; it was painted in cool periwinkle. She changed out of her training attire and cleansed herself in the lavatory. After she had dried herself she wore sleeping robes and sat on the edge of her bed. Khalena stared at the wall for a while, then out the window, with a grand view of the craftworld. Then she laid herself on the cot, head on pillow, and eyes closed. The Banshee fell into a dreamless slumber.

Her rest did not last long, because someone pressed the chime outside her door. At first, she ignored it, but decided it could be one of Banshees. Khalena walked up to it activated the automatic entrance. To her surprise, it was a built Eldar in Dire Avenger robes. Her mouth was closed and Khalena saw through her stern eyes that she assumed it must be a serious matter.

His name was Tovana, the Dire Avenger Exarch and friend of Khalena.

"Exarch Khalena, I am sorry to disturb, but there is something which requires your presence."

"Not at all Exarch Tovana; what do I owe the honor?"

"All of the Exarchs and clans are to be summoned to the council room immediately."

"I understand; I will leave right away."

The meeting had not begun when Khalena entered the conference hall next to the Farseer's quarters, at the Craftworld's heart. It was a space equivalent to the Aspect Warrior's training hall, but also commanded a grand view of the Craftworld below. Organic windowpanes presented the void in its absolute setting. The majority of the clan chieftains and the Exarchs were present in the hall. Some intermingled with one other, but others kept their distance. Khalena saw Drjen in the midst, along with Scolloro the Fire Dragon, and Ulren the Warp Spider. Then there was Tovana who waited by the conference table and shewas not alone. Krasson, the giant Reaper, was in his seat with two Reapers at his side. The Shining Spears Exarch, Ilano, and Swooping Hawks Exarch, Sitja, were in deep conversation away from the others. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Dark Green robes of the lone Ranger Pathfinder, Fildrahn, who observed everyone with detached calculation.

Khalena and two other Banshees, Leizia and Authrana, presented themselves to the Autarch and Farseer, who were in deep discussion.

Autarch Loralho and Farseer Eriana were very different to one another. The regal Xalho was dressed in his scarlet robes, while Eriana wore the robes of the esteemed seer. Loralho was stiff as an Avenger and bore a Scorpion's intensity in his coal-black eyes. Through the centuries, his leadership blossomed to take the Path of Command and succeeded the past Autarch, who had died in battle over sixty years ago. In his tenure he led the warhost in few battles and skirmishes, but nothing that called the entire Craftworld to battle.

Eriana carried a placid, but foreboding presence. Like Loralho, she possessed natural charisma and leadership. All of which gained through centuries of experience. Everything about her was icy. Her platinum hair looked like snow and her pantheresque eyes was like water through an icy screen. Khalena felt her bones tingle as she drew close.

"Exarch Khalena," said the Autarch, his tone serious and formal. Khalena rarely saw the Autarch out of his militant disposition.

The Farseer said nothing, but gestured a welcome. Khalena and her entourage made the warrior's sign to their leaders.

"Autarch, Farseer; allow me to introduce my Banshees."

"We are honored to be in your presence," said Leizia as she held the warrior's salute.

"An honor," said Authrana.

"You continue to set an example, Exarch Khalena," said the Farseer. It was a fact more than praise, but her liquid speech sounded the latter.

"We are honored, Farseer," said Khalena, her pride lifted.

"It appears everyone is here," said the Autarch, out of the corner of his eye.

"Then let us begin," said the Farseer, returning to her icy posture.

"Everyone, the meeting is about to begin, please take a seat," said the Autarch.

His voice boomed and everyone went to the conference table with a holo-lith projector in the center. The clans and Exarchs took their seats, where the Exarchs took their places between the clans. It was rare for the clans to be engaged in physical confrontation in front of the Craftworld leadership was forbidden. Khalena remembered one mild spat, but it was nothing that tarnished their presence in front of the Farseer.

Everyone brought along one or two members of their own factions. Only the Autarch was alone as he took his place next to the Farseer, who had a Warlock behind her seat. Leizia and Authrana stood behind their Exarch with fledgling confidence in the midst of the esteemed

"This meeting is now in session," said the Farseer, "I have called everyone today because I have sensed the need to change our course. When I was sleeping, there was a feeling that could be not ignored. It cried out for blood and its enemies. It is a shell, cold, but it was once filled with the purpose to destroy all things unworthy in its existence. The fire extinguished, but it is now hidden, away from contact."

"Farseer, forgive me, what is it?" said Chief Delthran, head of Clan Delthran.

"From the description I am able to provide, Clan Delthran, it appears to be a weapon."

Murmurs were shared. Khalena shifted her eyes to the clan chiefs. These meetings have often pitted the chiefs against the Farseer. The Exarchs were often on sidelines, the moderate faction. The Eldar were not scavengers, but they needed to find an edge over their enemies.

"Through this calling, Farseer, what were you able to extrapolate?

It was Scolloro, the Fire Dragon, who addressed the Farseer. His voice edged; the volcanic was bubbling with in his heart.

"Please be patient while I interpret it; the shell is cold, but at one time, was filled with fire. It consumed everything that was unworthy. The molten fire changed to more seductive colors from all colors. It once belonged to a collective like us, now extinct. The desire for battle rests on whoever chooses to control it."

Khalena made some sense of the Farseer. It sounded something similar and horrifying at the same time. The riddle was beginning to reveal itself.

"This weapon belongs to one of our kin?" said Chiefess Elthrana, her brow furrowed.

"However, I do not know who or what it belongs to. I do not know, although it may seem we are wasting our time talking about something that may or not exist, but the dark traces still speak. While time flows, it remains at a standstill, like an artifact in a glass box. The memory remains; in fact, I know the source's location. However, there are voices interfering its presence. They speak in banal and violent tongue; it is the Imperium of Man."

Raised murmurs erupted in the hall. The chiefs were ecstatic, even some of the Exarchs voiced their own reservations. Khalena felt the urge to speak her own opinion, but instead waited.

"Ludicrous," said Clan Xelthron, his tongue coated with dubiety.

"Why interfere with the humans; why stick our nose in their territory?" said Scolloro, a tightened fist on the conference table.

Khalena saw Ulren raised a hand.

"We shall have order," said the Autarch, voice amplified, drowned the rowdy discussion. Once things were calm the Farseer recognized the Warp Spider.

"Exarch Ulren," said the Farseer.

"Farseer, forgive my bluntness, but how serious is situation you are describing?"

"I would not have called this meeting if it were, otherwise. The human voices are in disarray; there is strife on the world. Mark my words, the vision tells me that this entity is calls our attention and may alter the fate of this sector. It sounds idiotic to be in the midst of it, but as I said before, this will have dire ramifications if we do not put a foot out. Although the humans and their conflicts are no interest to us, but I fear an inevitable meeting."

Khalena raised her hand.

"Yes Khalena?"

"Farseer, the way you are describing this thing, its significance and damage is a cause for concern," said the Banshee.

"That is correct, should it fall into the wrong hands."

"Are you saying, Farseer, there is another faction with this same interest?" said Sitja.

"Is it the humans?" said Chief Delthran.

"That is uncertain. In time, like all things, it will reveal itself." said the Farseer.

"Are we to destroy it, Farseer?" said Drjen, "but the description sounds abstract; a angry poetic ."

There was a moment of silence while Drjen's comment sunk in.

"I am afraid that remains to be seen," said the Farseer, "but the duality between the two are analogous."

Khalena furrowed her brow. The enigmatic response floated in everyone's mind. Whatever the Farseer was talking about, it must be serious. True, she was skeptical, but was she was willing to take the Farseer's words to heart. Surprisingly, the Autarch was quiet for most of the meeting.

The Farseer's attention turned to someone else.

"Pathfinder Fildrahn".

"Farseer, where is the source?" said the ranger.

"Here," said the Farseer and out of nowhere, a projection of a planet emerged from the holo-lith. A small planet, most of it covered by the sea. It appeared to be a temperate world where there are few industrial points are located along the shoreline. Two askew mountain ranges rested on the northern and southern hemisphere where its diminished polar caps appeared to be on the verge of melting. As a whole, it was far from the industrial and metal

"This does not look like an Imperial World; what is its name?" said Drjen.

"The humans call it Scirasa, but we know it as Han'Drah, it is located on the fringes of the human's Solar System."

"The object we are planning to look for is at the human's doorstep?" said Chief Tohvenen, a tinge of disbelief in his mouth.

Khalena's sentiments were sympathetic to Tohvenen. In fact, most of Eldar were unnerved by the Farseer's information. The consequences were great.

"Yes, I do not deny that this undertaking will be hazardous, but the impending consequences, should we fail to secure it, will be greater. Some of you may ask what is there to gain. While the Imperials hold on to their worlds with temperamental control we are seek to prevent the annihilation of our people; we do ourselves more harm than good if we fail."

Although some were unconvinced, others were willing to accept these developments. Khalena, for one, felt the Farseer had made her point.

"There is no point in sending a Warhost while the Imperials are engaged," said the Autarch, "Pathfinder Fildrahn, are you ready?"

"My rangers are itching for action, my Autarch," said the ranger.

"Go to this planet and within a week's time, report to us what you find. From there, we will decide."

"Everyone, return to your duties and may Isha watch over us as Khaine prepares us," said the Farseer as the council adjourned.


	3. Chapter 3

**This story is indebted to Games Workshop and Forgeworld.**

* * *

**Make An Entrance**

The squad assembled, they ventured closer to town. The lights were coming closer, along with the sounds of roaring engines. Krantz, who was paired with Dessler, observed the convoy's gradual halt just before the entrance. Tiny light strobes approached the convoy from the opposite direction. First Squad was about one hundred-ten meters from the town walls. The Watchmaster viewed the activity through his binoculars. After a moment, he relayed his findings to the squad.

"Squad, they are in PDF fatigues; five vehicles are modified, open-topped Chimera chassis of unknown affiliation."

He then reported to the lieutenant, who notified that a battery had the town marked. He requested information about the vehicles and if they were standard PDF equipment. Although their identities were obscured, it nevertheless confirmed the Death Rider's sightings.

"One-Two, take two men for a closer look."

"Aye, sir," said Brecksten.

From his position, Krantz watched the trio as they maneuvered through the dry field. The team made us of the numerous depressions for cover. They had to be careful, because they were in a natural killing zone.

Krantz squinted at the convoy's idle activity, but in the midst, stifled a yawn. Anticipation filled his senses and made his fingers tingle. In his mind, he was looking forward to put training into a combat situation, but Krantz was wary. Back on Krieg, he struggled through the rigorous standards of the instructors. There were times when he was indecisive and not very thorough in his reports, which he felt unprepared despite practice. Krantz's self-confidence plummeted to a low, yet somehow scrapped average marks. The young trooper restrained his nervous competence through many menial tasks in order to keep his spirits up.

Still, Krantz was here. Perhaps that was all it mattered. Again, his thoughts were interrupted when the convoy erupted into life and rolled into town.

"One-One, report," said Schren, through the vox.

"Seeing what the squad is seeing, One-One."

"Understood; orders, sir?"

"Standby, One-Zero."

"Zero-One to One-Zero, reconnaissance abort; repeat, reconnaissance abort. Pickets to return to their former posts, over."

"Understood, Zero-One, out."

Schren switched to squad channel.

"Squad, reconnaissance abort. Pickets, return to your posts."

Disappointed, the squad slowly retreated, but dared not to turn their backs until they reached higher ground.

The next day, the platoon had a surprise. Along with company command, Lieutenant Colonel "One" Redel, the acting commander of Death Korps troops on the planet, came to First Platoon's position. They inspected their surroundings and the position itself. Zero-One and his entourage were present before Captain "Zero-Zero-One" Heinrich in the command bunker. With Heinrich was a man dressed in similar attire to Heinrich, but his. His name was Captain Mallach, known as "G-Zero-Zero-One", of the First Grenadier Company.

Heinrich was a thin man of average height. He wore a peaked cap with an Aquila and regimental number on the crown. The numerical company designation attached on his left tunic collar. On the right was a black lapel, designating his position as line infantryman. A holstered laspistol was clipped on his left side. Overall, his attire was standard to an infantryman's.

Mallach was a strapping man with flinty eyes. He too wore the similar attire. The two altered articles were the white lapel and matte umber skull stud with the company number. Like the majority of the Death Korps, he rarely smiled and bore a dour expression. Zero-One was informed by Watchmaster Schren's account and had a report transmitted to Zero-Zero-One. Redel requested to see the transcribed report. He skimmed the contents and laid it aside.

"Lieutenant Zero-One, the information presents us a picture that the area is a potentially active one."

"Yes, sir."

"Regiment is lifting the fog; from now one, our presence will be known the day after tomorrow."

"What are your orders, sir?" said Captain Mallach.

"Is there a piece of parchment and a pen around?"

The requested materials at hand, he drew a crude sketch of the battle plan.

"Before the assault, two barrages of smoke will land before the town. Three grenadier platoons will form a line and advance directly. These platoons will expand; close enough to be in the presence of both flanking parties. There will be a platoon of grenadiers per flanking party. The rest is up to you, Grenadier Captain Zero-Zero-One. Elements of the Third and Fourth Companies will be on standby."

"Line Captain Zero-Zero-One, I want you to select a number of platoons on the left and center, while Captain Zero-Zero-Two will do the same on the right and center. Some of you may have heard an aircraft overhead last night. The plane's payloads were leaflets for the rebels...yes, lieutenant?"

"Sir, I apologize for interrupting, what are we to do with civilians?" asked Handelmann.

There was a calculative silence. No response, but One shrugged. Mallach raised a hand.

"Captain?"

"Sir, does the loyal PDF have any idea what's going on?"

"We do not know the exact disposition of the PDF and it is likely they have some knowledge. All we know are the locations where they exert an influence."

"Sir, do we muscle them if we encounter them?"

"Only if the rules of engagement are altered by the colonel," said Redel, "but we will have to see."

"If it is indeed a rebel town, then the entire town must be subjugated. It is up to you to decide whether or not to take prisoners. Either way, information is key. The offensive will commence two days from now at 0600 hours; prepare your men."

Throughout the day, there was little activity coming from the town. Behind the first platoon, the grenadiers formed as well as the rest of the First Line company sorted themselves in their groups. The sentries reported engines sounds coming from the town. Lights were moving from the town to the east road. They were going north, in the direction of Saint Cajo. Forward sentries reported the vehicles were of the same chassis reported the night before.

The early morning light pierced the eyes of those on guard duty. It was cool morning; the slight chill counteracted the heat of the upcoming battle. Five Leman Russ tanks from the Eleventh Assault Company had arrived last night and were positioned behind First Platoon's original position. All vehicles had their lights off while the drivers drove using special night vision eyewear. It was no doubt the engines would cause some attention. They distanced themselves as far to the maximum range of their cannons.

Krantz tapped on the barrel of his lasgun. My first engagement, he thought. Mixed emotions filled his head as he rubbed his fingers. He was no longer in the trench for the grenadiers required it for their attack, Four hundred men hid behind the sand dunes, ready for what was to come. The trooper scooped a grain of sand in one hand, remembering not to get any sand in his weapon. Its texture was strange, like pulverized rock. His hands felt web like. His curiosity satisfied, Krantz wore his gloves and secured the sleeves over them. Every soldier had their respirators ready in case of a chemical attack. Extra weight, but it was part of the Death Korps' identity.

The grenadier squads were like dark green mounds of vegetation ready to be trimmed. In regular cases, the grenadiers never mingled with the line companies. The regular infantry sidestepped from the grenadiers due to their status. They suffered the most casualties in the wake of a major offensive and were looked upon with respect.

Krantz felt a hand on his shoulder and saw it was Watchmaster Schren.

"Ready, lad?"

Krantz nodded.

"Platoon, fix bayonets; fix," said his lieutenant.

The same order was repeated from the other line platoons. Without a word, Krantz unsheathed his monoblade and fixed it on the muzzle. Three hundred other guardsmen complied at once and waited.

* * *

Grenadier Corporal 8123142 "Two-One" Goritz fiddled around his helmet strap. It was a useless gesture, a habit. He always tinkered with the strap before a major engagement. It was better than tinkering his hellgun. His platoon was part of first wave, the nose of the battle line. He was the Watchmaster's right hand man and second-in-command.

Suddenly, five muffled discharges behind signified the attack. Ahead, the shells hit home at the town's base and slowly, thick grey clouds accumulated. Goritz admitted the gunners were accurate and disciplined to target that specific area. The sounds attracted the every soldier's attention on the battlefield. The wait seemed much prolonged; regardless how many times Goritz thought he prepared for an attack, the wait was long.

"In life, war; in death, peace; in life, shame; in death, atonement," whispered Goritz. He was not the only one who recited the litany.

The second barrage began. Goritz saw his captain at the helm, along with his entourage. The platoon lieutenant turned to his men and blew the whistle. Two other whistles prompted the entire line into battle. Three hundred men hustled down the hill. On the flanks, one grenadier platoon led the Line Platoons. Goritz paid no attention to them, for his focus was on the objective. His armor weighed him considerably, along with his hellgun and gear. For the moment, he was grateful his respirator was of little use. Ongoing rushes of air enveloped his body, his breathing gradually quickened through his nostrils.

The smokescreen was blowing towards inland, but the cloud lingered long enough to cover the offensive across the line. The men mantled down the sunken trench and proceeded through the dirt moat. No enemy gunfire. Goritz found it distracting, but not disconcerting. He remembered the times his unit was caught off guard. The captain had reached the low stone wall. One by one, platoons extended the line. As they hugged the wall as close as possible, the quiet atmosphere spoke of the flanking parties' progress. No gunfire and no explosions. The quiet tickled.

Eyes on their commanders, the grenadiers waited. Goritz pepped an eye over the barrier and the deserted town.

"All platoons send a squad to check the town; at one hundred meters, report your findings."

"Fifth squad, over the wall."

"First squad, move out."

"Second squad, on your feet," said Goritz's lieutenant.

The grenadiers mantled over the wall. It was not easy, because their armor and gear weighed them down. Nevertheless, they moved along the opposing sides of what appeared to be one of the town's main avenues. The ground transitioned from dirt to smooth pavement, but of a similar off-white color. Goritz's Watchmaster placed himself alonside first house in view and checked its windows. Afterwards, he turned to Goritz behind him.

"One-Two, take half the squad and go along the left hand side, the rest will stick to the right," said Goritz's squad leader.

Goritz nodded and gestured to three men. One grenadier had a flamethrower in his hand. As he made his way to the opposite house Goritz realized it was large town, larger than it appeared to be. It smelled of history. He led the team down the boulevard just as the sun's powerful rays pounded the landscape. The golden light made every building shone like the sand on the beaches. Goritz inspected the buildings; most of them appeared to be apartments complexes, with floors as high as three stories. The buildings were varied; some stucco, some stone, and others with intricate balcony railing. Signs of flowers and vegetation hung from balconies.

In the mind of every trooper, they had to assume this was a potential ambush. Behind a closed door or window, there was a chance a rebel, or two, was waiting. Whenever a side alley emerged on both sides, both teams coordinated their efforts to not be caught by surprise. Goritz poked his head from the side and brought his hellgun at the ready. There was nothing in the alleyway. He switched to the other side of the alley as a trooper covered his transition. They all repeated the drill until the last one passed. He though he heard a door or window open about five meters ahead on the opposite side. Immediately, he trained his sights on the suspected sight. At the same time Goritz shifted his eyes on the upper balconies and windows. The vox burst into life.

"G-One-Five-One-One, no contact."

"G-One-Three-One-One, same here."

"G-One-Two-One-One, nothing."

"All platoons, proceed; one squad at a time," said the Captain, "platoons six and seven, begin your advance."

A moment later, there was another burst on the grenadier vox.

"This is G-One-Five-One-One, our advance is unopposed; beginning sweep."

It was followed by another transmission.

"G-One-Four-One-One here, advance unopposed; beginning sweep."

"Copy all; send a squad to the town square," said Captain Mallach, all platoons, forward."

* * *

**Making A Scratch**

Two days had passed when the Pathfinder returned from the Webway. The Farseer called for another meeting. Every Exarch and clan representative entered. The atmosphere was filled with anticipation. All eyes were on the Farseer and the Autarch.

"We went to this Scirasa, and with my Rangers, we discovered a few portals on the planet. They felt ancient and must have been dormant for many centuries. We were at the more deserted corners of the planet. It was strange; there were no humans, no Imperium, and no disturbance. That was where we discovered the portals; most of them were hidden in the hills."

"We got as close as we could to major human settlements. The feeling was tense and self-conflicted and we noticed some villages and towns razed to the ground. The Farseer is correct, there is some sort conflict amongst the humans."

"Have you found anything else aside from the things you saw?" said the Farseer.

"No, Farseer, but we all of us shared a collective sensation in our minds. It was difficult to describe, but it felt like heat, an intense heat. It began when we were near northern mountains."

"Heat?"

"It is very different difficult to describe; the best example is the vapors from a Fire Dragon's Fusion Gun's muzzle."

Furrowed brows and low murmurs was their answer.

"Thank you, Pathfinder, you may be seated," said the Farseer, "clan leaders and Exarchs, please express your opinion on the matter."

The Striking Scorpion raised his hand.

"Exarch Drjen."

"Farseer, I have to honest; from what we have interpreted, the object is a weapon, or what we perceive to be, a person?"

"You are correct, Exarch Drjen."

"That is all I wish to know, Farseer," said Drjen and sat down.

"Farseer, what are we to do?" said Chief Tohvenen.

"Clan Chiefs, have you each arrived at a decision?" said the Farseer.

All of them affirmed.

"Autarch Loralho," said the Farseer.

Autarch Loralho stood up from his chair adjacent to the Farseer and addressed the Craftworld. All attention diverted to him.

"Warriors, I have decided that a small force of mixture between clan and Aspect Warriors will root out the source. Pathfinder Fildrahn, are you willing to return to assist the force?"

"Yes, my Autarch," said the ranger.

"Exarchs? Clan chiefs?"

There was a tense moment where the Exarches glanced at one another. Khalena had thought about it and conversed with a few Aspect warriors the day before.

Khalena stood up from her seat hesitantly. Krasson, the giant Reaper, joined her and was followed by Drjen and Scolloro. Chief Delthran and Chiefess Elthrana followed suit. The others remained where they were.

"Is that all?" said the Farseer.

"Autarch, with your permission, I will have my herald stand in my stead," said Elthrana. Khalena looked to the wiry warrior on the Chief's left. His name was Jalth, Delthran's right hand.

"Of course, Chiefess Elthrana," said the Autarch.

"For those who are not participating in this engagement, you are dismissed," said the Farseer, "the rest of you, stay here."

* * *

A few hours later, Khalena met with the Exarchs in the training hall, at her behest. She had informed her Banshees of the coming expedition and told them to take some time off to prepare. Khalena was second to arrive the dormant hall where she saw the hooded Krasson in quiet contemplation.

Krasson was a giant, standing a head taller than Drjen and a build that a few Eldar can class. The Reaper's face perceived of a veteran warrior, who was, in truth, the oldest of all the Exarchs. His pale skin contrasted to his ivory black robes. He wore inky black robes. He was a quiet person, too quiet. Khalena never really understood him because his mind was blank. The Reaper was not deaf and dumb, but an aloof individual his Aspect siblings depended on in big moments.

"Exarch Krasson," said Khalena, "I am glad you are coming."

"Exarch Khalena," said Krasson in a low voice, unfurling his hood, then furling it back. If it were not Khalena's sensitive hearing, she might have believed Krasson was mumbling. Khalena was always taken back of Krasson's soft speech. The two were interrupted when the Fire Dragon and Scorpion Exarchs approached them side-by-side.

Scolloro was of Khalena's height and of a similar build to Drjen. A volatile warrior, he relished a worthy engagement and an enemy's annihilation. It was an appropriate description of an untamable and ferocious warrior. When he spoke, his words came out like a spewing volcano and the spontaneity reflected his temperament. The Banshee recalled moments when his actions came too far. He wanted to destroy what was already destroyed and the satisfaction was rarely quenched.

Drjen was in contemplative state. His furrowed brow was the universal sign of a thinking person. The Scorpion was perplexed, but intellectually stimulated by the meetings. Khalena knew Drjen to be a contemplative sort when the situation warranted it, but saw someone missing.

"Where is Pathfinder Fildrahn?"

"I do not know," said Drjen, "Exarch Krasson."

"Exarch Drjen, Exarch Scolloro."

"Exarch Krasson, Exarch Khalena."

They stood there. Out of the blue, a lean warrior in a green cloak emerged from the shadows and joined the group.

"Pathfinder Fildrahn," said Khalena, surprised she had not seen him before. Krasson nodded in his presence. Khalena deduced Krasson and Fildrahn met before the latter went hiding.

"We should get started; Pathfinder Fildrahn, what should we expect?" said Drjen.

The Pathfinder shrugged.

"It was explained at the meeting."

"That is it?" said Drjen, disappointed.

"It is not an ideal engagement," said the ranger, coolly.

"We've dealt with these kinds of situations before, no?" said Khalena.

"True."

"What is different this time?" said Scolloro.

"I have no clue," said Fildrahn.

"Come now, Pathfinder, there has to be something; a hint, a clue," said the Fire Dragon, his temperament boiling within.

The Pathfinder was unfazed of the Fire Dragon. The Banshee agreed with Scolloro. Surely, the Pathfinder was hiding something.

"There is really nothing else?" said Khalena.

"We may have not have telepathic abilities, Exarch Khalena, but is there something you feel amiss?"

"I do," said Scolloro.

"That is up to you; my consciousness is clean," said the Pathfinder, "what have I to gain by hiding?"

Drjen decided to change the meeting's direction.

"Twenty Wild Riders, and twenty Aspect Warriors, and five Rangers," said Drjen, "those are good numbers."

"Yes," said Khalena, "and since we will be on jetbikes, we will not get in each other's way."

"And if there are humans along the way, we will crush them," said Scolloro.

"Remember Exarch Scolloro, if we are discovered, then the mission's purpose is nullified," said Fildrahn.

"I know that, Pathfinder," said Scolloro, "but we cannot tell to step aside; when we have the chance, we kill them, and then the blame can be directed on either side."

"Avoiding contact is a priority," said Drjen, "the Autarch made himself clear."

"Bah."

The corner of Drjen's lip curled down. The displeasure of having to deal with a semi-irascible warrior pushed to limits of the Scorpion's patience. Khalena mused at her brothers. She folded her arms.

"I don't know how you cope being with us for all of these years, Khalena," said Drjen, "you must be at your wit's end."

"If I reach that point, then the enemy better not be in my way."

Drjen, Scolloro, and Fildrahn chuckled. Behind her, Krasson nodded in approval to Khalena's wit.

"If you keep it up, Khalena, maybe you will be the first to crack Krasson's face without violence," said Drjen.

Khalena turned around, but only saw Krasson's dour expression.

"That may take awhile," said Khalena.

"So we are the only ones," said Drjen, looking around.

"The Farseer is assigning one of her Warlocks," said Scolloro, "it makes me wonder."

"What is on your mind, Scolloro?" said Khalena.

Scolloro paused.

"The Farseer sends one of her Warlocks; it sounds as if she expects company, serious company…does it not feel strange?"

"We need an edge if it all falls apart," said Drjen, "we have to prepare for the worst."

"Better less than more," said Fildrahn, "after all, we are not going to war."


End file.
